


hold my hands down beside me, i'm counting on you

by notlucy



Series: Give a Little, Take a Little [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, BDSM, Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm, POV Bucky Barnes, Paddling, Panic Attacks, Praise Kink, Punishment, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Safeword Use, Sex Work, Spanking, Sub Bucky Barnes, Teasing, clothespins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23301574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: Bucky misses his train, misses the mark, and misses an opportunity.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Give a Little, Take a Little [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1263104
Comments: 129
Kudos: 908





	hold my hands down beside me, i'm counting on you

**Author's Note:**

> We're all stuck at home, so why not have some porn written during a simpler time? This story will make little to no sense if you haven't read the rest of the series, but also: it's horny.

When the posture doohickey comes in the mail, Bucky finds it isn't quite what he'd expected. It's not a magic device that's going to record all his slips and slumps, sending them to Steve in some neat report containing a precise number of prescribed paddlings. (Though wouldn't that be something? An enterprising app developer could make a mint.) Instead, it offers training and tracking modes, which might have him sitting up straighter, but don't provide the functionality he'd hoped for.

So, he emails Steve about the dilemma, figuring he ought to let the person doing the reprimanding decide how he wants to reprimand. There's something soothing in the act. In allowing someone else to make the choice. Figure it out. Releasing his worry to another human, then sleeping soundly thereafter.

Steve writes back at two a.m., though Bucky doesn’t receive it until he checks his phone in the morning while getting ready for the yoga class he’s definitely _not_ in the habit of attending. Because that might mean he’s becoming a healthier person or something. 

> _Do whatever the manual recommends and send me screenshots at the end of the day. I’ll manage. -S_

Relieved, Bucky heads to class, where he discovers he can perform a half-moon without his ankle wobbling as much as it did last week. Granted, he can only hold it for six seconds before losing his balance. Still, hey, that's kaizen, baby (a concept he may or may not have read about in a self-help book he may or may not have purchased on a whim while googling shit about centering oneself and improving life and yeah, okay, at least he's not reading _The Secret_ or making vision boards.

[Yet.])

Thing is, though, it's not all woo-woo bullshit. Especially the yoga, which he wishes he'd found years ago. Because on the days he goes—like this one, for example—he finds that he's more clear-headed at work. Less likely to dip into daydreams at his desk. Cutting down on covert raids of the sugary snack drawer that beckons from the break room. He takes walks at lunch. Doesn't eat at his desk. Buys a salad and sits in the park, watching a flock of pigeons fight over a crust of bread and oh, no, he's getting nurtured by nature. If his sister could see him now.

The posture app helps, too—he’s sitting up straighter thanks to the little white thing-a-ma-jigger. It’s not unpleasant, but it does emit a gentle, unmistakable vibration every time he slumps. At first, he tries it in training mode, then switches to tracking. Around three, he sends Steve screenshots of both. In response, Steve sends back a _thank you_ accompanied by the emoji that looks like it’s blushing and smiling all at once. Bucky grins, ears going hot. He turns the phone over on his desk and clears his throat before pulling up a spreadsheet, focusing so intently on cell B32 that the screen goes blurry.

Because it’s the kind of emoji that makes a guy wanna take another guy out for coffee, is all.

An emoji of misplaced hope and false fantasies.

* * *

They don't really talk much between sessions. Bucky sends Steve daily screenshots of compliance—whether it's his yoga mat or his water bottle—and remains resolutely celibate save for his planned pud-pulling, which he performs on the second Tuesday, as promised, informing Steve when he's successfully unloaded. So to speak.

Steve sends back another _thanks_ , which is pretty much the extent of his loquaciousness. Which, okay, he’s likely a busy guy, what with the professional domination and the woodworking and God knows what else. But also: last time between sessions, he'd sent longer messages, and they'd had, like a dialogue. And _also_ also, why had Steve kissed him like that before he left—all hot and needy and sexy—if he was just going to go cold fish on communications? 

This particular set of anxieties has Bucky drawing the natural conclusion that, probably, Steve is second-guessing their arrangement. Like, maybe he's feeling weird about the little Q&A Bucky had foisted on him at the end of their time together, and now he wants to cool things off. Cut things off. But surely he would say so? Surely he wouldn't drag out a fortnight of _thanks_ and _okay_ and _sure_ responses if he was gonna just end whatever relationship they’ve got going.

More likely, Bucky reasons (after emerging from another freak-out spiral on the Wednesday before the Thursday before the Friday when he’ll see Steve again), Steve is someone who doesn’t share a lot about himself. The sort of person who retreats into his shell after the first reveal of some silly tidbit. The sort of person who isn’t used to putting himself out there at all, despite having a job that requires pulling that level of vulnerability from others.

Hmm. Maybe Bucky _does_ know a thing or two about Steve.

* * *

On Friday, Bucky receives two things in short order: a text from Steve that says _tonight: clothes off, kneel by the chair_ , followed soon after by a phone call from his sister. He’s still grinning from the former when the latter arrives, forcing him to try sounding nonchalant when he steps into the hallway at work to answer.

“Hey, Becca,” he greets, though it’s barely out of his mouth before she comes back with an excited “guess _what_?”

“No clue.”

“I’m coming to see you!”

That gets an immediate grin out of him—a visit from Becca is never less than welcome. “No shit? When?”

“Two weeks from today, so get that comfy fucker of an air mattress ready.”

“Two weeks! What’s going on?”

“Mindy—you remember Mindy—?”

“Uh, redhead? From college?”

"College redhead. Yeah. She's getting married, and originally I wasn't a bridesmaid, but I guess there was like…a _drama,_ so now I'm in, and they're doing a surprise bachelorette thing two weeks from Saturday, but it's all super last minute, so I'm like…surely my big, important brother will let me stay with him?"

“Uh, yes, obviously,” he says, still hot off the block while she’s sprinting down the home stretch of the information relay. “I thought you and Mindy weren’t—”

“We _weren’t_ , that's what I'm saying, but now we are, and I guess originally she didn't want a party. But because of this bridesmaid that got, like, bridesmaid fired, now she does. And I'm in, and it's all happening, only it's a surprise, too? She wants it, but she doesn't know she's _getting_ it, and she’s traveling so much for work so we can only do it in two weeks. So, like…I’m gonna get in on Friday morning and then the party’s Saturday and I’ll go home on Sunday. Which means we’ll have time to hang out, too!”

“That sounds awesome, Bec,” he says, even as his brain sounds a klaxon regarding what hanging out with his sister _two weeks from tonight_ is likely to mean for his libido. Sex life. Sex life? Kind of. Whatever.

“I’ll email you my flight details. Should I get an Uber from the airport?”

“Uh. Probably. Yeah,” he says, distracted.

“What’s wrong?” The question is blunt, the intent obvious—his twin has been able to pick up on his tells since the day they came squalling into the world, Bucky with a head start of twelve minutes, making him her big brother in only the most pedantic way. (Meaning he’s been holding it over her ever since.)

“What? Nothing.”

“You sound weird.”

"No, I'm…sorry. It's work shit." This isn't a lie, considering Steve keeps insisting they're operating under a business arrangement.

“Mmm,” she says like she doesn’t believe him.

“What?”

“I just think you’re full of shit. But whatever, I’ll get it out of you when I see you.”

That’s fair: Bucky has a half-decent poker face, except in front of Becca. (And, annoyingly, Steve.) Still, in a rush to defend his honor, he blurts out, “there’s nothing to get! I’m just stressed—we’re on deadline, and I might have to stay late tonight.” That, also, is true—he’s going to be going straight from work to the dungeon, meaning no time to shower or eat or any of his usual preparations.

“Ew,” she says, and he can practically hear her nose wrinkling. “It’s _Friday_.”

“Time waits for no man,” he replies with enough gravitas in his voice that Gandalf would tell him to tone it the fuck down. “Send me your flight stuff, okay? I gotta go, but we’ll figure out something to do on your free night.”

“You’re the best.”

“Don’t I know it,” he says, making an obnoxious kissing noise at her before hanging up, after which he heads back to work. Where, yeah, there’s the deadline. Which ends up making him ten minutes late to his session with Steve. It isn’t _totally_ his fault, except for the part where he stayed to answer just-one-last email, which turned into just-one-last task, which turned into, you know. Being late. Running down the steps to the subway platform just in time to see a train pull away, then waiting what feels like an eternity for another one. The usual fuckery.

When he finally arrives at the nondescript doorway, he enters to find someone sitting at the tiny reception desk, for once—a blonde woman with a cupid’s bow mouth, hair pulled back into a fancy twist. She sends him to the usual room where, mercifully, Steve hasn’t arrived. Or, more likely, he’s already been and gone, annoyed with Bucky’s tardiness. Not wanting to waste any more time, Bucky strips off his clothes, barely remembering to fold them before tossing them into the box and scooting to kneel on the cushion by the chair.

A scant two minutes pass before Steve opens the door. Bucky looks up, expecting anger, only to find nonchalance. Steve, utterly himself, handsome in a tight grey t-shirt and jeans, omnipresent white sneakers on his feet. Bucky thinks maybe he's trimmed his beard since last time, but other than that, he's entirely unchanged, which is comforting. Sort of.

"I'm sorry," Bucky says, because if he acknowledges it, then maybe they can move past it quickly.

“For what?” Steve asks, closing the door.

“Uh. I’m late?”

“Ah.” Crossing the room, he sits, touching a hand to Bucky’s shoulder. A grounding gesture, if not entirely reassuring. “Why were you late?”

“Uh. MTA?”

Steve smiles. Strokes his thumb across Bucky’s bare skin and nods. “Fair enough.”

Bucky isn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but casual, friendly dismissal of his transgression isn’t it. Plus, it’s not _really_ fair enough, is it? The fucking MTA is a convenient excuse—one all New Yorkers have bred into them at birth—and it’s true enough in the sense that he missed the first train by inches. But that was his own fault, as he’d made the choice to stay late. To work on one-last-thing that could have waited until Monday. But he doesn’t say so. Just buries his unease down deep, biting his lip and leaning into Steve’s touch. “I’m still sorry.”

“I appreciate that. Maybe text me next time, let me know?”

“Oh. Uh. Yes, definitely.”

“Ready to get started?”

He is and he isn't. Mostly because he knows he needs to bring up their future scheduling conflict, and he's sure he'll be too spacey afterward. "Not quite yet."

“No?”

“I uh. I should tell you. For next time? I mean, _our_ next time. My sister’s gonna be in town. So I can’t…be here. For this.”

A brief flicker of something—disappointment? Frustration?—passes across Steve’s face before being replaced with his usual friendly distance. “Sure, yeah. That’s no problem.”

“I’m really sorry,” he says. Again.

“It’s your sister.”

“Yeah, but normally I could just like…send her to a show, or something, but she’s only around for the weekend. It’s a wedding thing, and she just has the Friday night free because there’s a bachelorette party on Saturday, and—”

Steve cuts him off, moving a hand to Bucky’s cheek. “Hey. It’s fine. I’ll give you enough homework to last you a month, alright?”

Fuck. A month. A _month_. That's a really long time. Plus, a small, earnest part of him had been hoping Steve would break the two-week protocol. Say 'come next week' or 'let's make it three weeks instead' but no. A month. 

"I…" he hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek, using the little spark of pain to ground his thoughts. "That'd be good. Thank you."

“Speaking of homework…” Steve says, shifting gears, “let me see your phone. I want to check how you’ve been doing.”

“I…sure.” He gets to his feet, going to the box to retrieve his phone, which he opens to the posture app and presents to Steve.

“Good boy. Why don’t you hold a plank while I check your progress—you can do a minute thirty by now, can’t you?”

“Yes,” he says, because he’s actually up to a minute forty, but he’s not about to share that with Steve when he knows Steve will likely hold him to his personal best.

“You can…wait, how do you set a timer on this phone?”

“Oh.” Bucky smiles, stepping closer. Because Steve doesn’t have an iPhone—the color of his texts are evidence of that—and clearly doesn’t know how one works. “Here.” He goes to the stopwatch. “Just hit start when you’re ready, and then swipe up here…to get to the posture app.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, casual as he points to the floor. “Go ahead and get started.”

Bucky complies, settling into his plank as Steve messes with his phone, doubtlessly figuring out the needlessly complicated app, which has approximately eighteen different dashboards to wrangle.

At first, the plank is fine. He's doing perfectly okay with things because he really has been improving. But then, well, it doesn't stop. Or, rather, Steve doesn't stop him. Bucky's sure it's been longer than a minute thirty. Or a minute thirty-five. Forty. Forty-five? His arms are noodles, and his back is bowing, limp dick coming precariously close to the floor as his body threatens to betray him.

“Did I say you were done?” Steve asks, just as Bucky’s arms give out and he collapses.

“But you said—!”

Wrong answer. Steve’s hand shoots out, reflexes at the ready, grabbing a fistful of Bucky’s hair to jerk his head up at a god damned uncomfortable angle. “What was that?”

“Sorry!”

“Stand up, spread your legs.”

Every _fucking_ time, with the questioning of Steve’s orders. Bucky bites back his annoyance as he gets to his feet, wishing he could retract that one little word. Or, alternatively, that his nuts might retract into his body out of a sense of self-preservation.

No such luck: the moment his legs are spread, Steve gives him a stinging smack right to the balls and Jesus _Christ,_ that never gets any more fun (even if the tiny masochist that lives in his dick is totally chubbing up from the anguish, despite the rest of him nearly doubling over from the sensation).

“You wanna fall on the floor, you can fall on the floor,” Steve says evenly, pulling back. “But you know the rules.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, because what else is he going to say?

“I bet you are,” Steve nods, giving his flank a slap, then pointing to his black bag of tricks. “Go get the wooden paddle in the side pocket—it’s round, you won’t miss it. And don’t go digging around for anything else if you don’t want to be sorry about it later.”

Bucky has no desire to be any sorrier than he is right now, so he’s gone and back in a flash, presenting the paddle to Steve like it’s a scepter and he’s just waiting for his coronation. “Did you make this one, too?”

“Yup,” Steve says, patting his lap. “Hop on over.”

Ah, there’s the funny thrill that runs from his brain to his belly every time Steve makes that offer. The ooey, gooey caramel sensation surging through his insides at the surety of _this_ moment—the routine, the maintenance—making him smile. Because Steve is going to take care of him; going to make him hurt. And that good, deep hurt will release all the tension that’s been building up in him these past two weeks. All the stress, all the work nonsense, all the deadlines. Gone in a wave of discomfort that leaves him wrung out and strung out. 

(So how the fuck-fuckity-fuck is he supposed to go for a _month_ without this? Sure, he went his entire life before meeting Steve, but now he's a junkie jonesing for his next fix. Gotta get the pure stuff, straight from the source. Accept no substitutes.)

Steve gets him settled, then starts spanking without preamble—using his hand, and being remarkably gentle, considering. Blows that glance off Bucky's skin, lulling him into a false sense of security. Which means that when the harder hits come, a few minutes into the warm-up, he's not totally ready, and lets out a yowl like a barn cat whose tail was pulled by some ruthless toddler.

“There you are,” Steve murmurs, voice rumbling right through Bucky’s center as his calloused hand descends with renewed purpose. “Better get comfortable, sweetheart. You’re gonna be here for a while.”

As ever, Steve's not kidding. Minutes tick by, and time starts losing meaning as his hand continues to fall, alternating harsh smacks with barely-there brushes. It's still a warm-up, Bucky knows, but a longer one than Steve's given him before. Uncomfortable, yes, but never _too_ much—Steve’s a master at knowing when he’s pushing the limits of Bucky’s tolerance, pulling back enough, then nudging him forward. Coaxing him into taking more. Pushing him to the next level of pain, until he’s left whimpering and wriggling, tears in his eyes as he complains wordlessly over his predicament.

“You make such good noises, Buck,” Steve teases, pausing to knead the tender skin of Bucky’s backside before pulling away. Seconds later, he feels the touch of the wooden paddle and winces. “Just so you know? I’m really gonna make this hurt.”

"Ohhhhh, boy…" Bucky exhales, no real protest to be found in his resigned sigh.

“Because the thing is,” Steve continues, rubbing the paddle in slow circles. “You had so _many_ posture infractions. And you know I have to punish you for ‘em, right?”

Bucky’s thighs tense, toes pushing against the cold floor. “Uh-huh.”

“However, I know you don’t like the word punish, so—”

“It’s not that I don’t—” he starts, then stops, because he knows better than to interrupt. Knows it as well as he knows not to second-guess. And yet, there they are. “Um. Sorry.”

“Yup,” Steve agrees, taking the hand that’s draped over Bucky’s back to slide beneath his torso instead, finding the tip of his trapped cock, which he pinches hard enough to make Bucky squeak, stars exploding in his vision. “So what aren’t you gonna do?”

“Ih- _hin_ -terrupt! Ow, _fuck_!”

“Hurts, don’t it?”

It’s so close to a dad joke that Bucky could scream, which is convenient because Steve chooses that moment to pinch harder, so he _does_. A high-pitched yip that ought to be embarrassing but there's no shame to be had anymore. Not when all he can think about is that this has. _To. Stop_. By any means necessary. “Please, please!”

"Please, what?"

“Please, no more!”

“Are you gonna interrupt again?”

“No, sir!” The honorific arrives unbidden, but it feels right. “I’m really fucking sorry!”

“Such a good boy,” Steve says, perky as ever, releasing his vice grip. “Now, what were you saying?”

“It’s.” Bucky swallows, head swimming and cock throbbing. “It. Fuck. I don’t mind it. The word. As a concept. When I actually deserve it. I just…” He takes a breath. “I’m not a fan of it when like…some guy tries to use it in bed to make you feel bad for something you didn’t do, or like they think it’s sexy, because it’s not. Like, oh, have you been a _naughty_ boy?”

Steve laughs at that, left hand coming to rest on the small of Bucky’s back as his right continues rubbing those slow, maddening circles with the flat of the paddle. “You’ve alluded to that before, Bucky,” he says, a smile in his voice.

“Oh.” Which, now that he thinks about it, they _had_ kind of had that discussion during his first session.

“So if you’d let me keep talking instead of interrupting, I would have said something to that effect. Meaning you got your dick pinched for nothing.”

“…oh.”

“All I was going to say, in fact, is that I think for you, I’m gonna use the word correct instead of punish. Which is different than maintaining. But that’s what we’re doing—correcting behavior, right?”

Bucky, whose dick is _exceedingly_ put-out with him, nods. “Right.”

“And since what I plan on doing to correct you is going to hurt considerably more than other things we’ve done to date, I wanted to warm you up to a place where I think you can take that level of pain. Meaning…” He taps the paddle three times against Bucky’s skin. “The paddling is just another part of that warm-up, so I’m not going to quit until I think you’re ready for your actual correction, or you stop me. You know how to stop me, right?”

Bucky drops his head and licks his lips. “Yup.”

“Wanna remind me?”

“Red, yellow, green, or Winifred for like…hard fucking stop, cancel everything.”

“Good boy. Get ready.”

Then: pain. Bright, sharp, glorious, focusing pain radiating from the flat of that innocuous little paddle. Each smack blends into the next until there is no counting, no anticipating, no worrying. They’re endless, everlasting, and in some ways, reassuring. Time, work, life, everything outside of that blooming center of agony falls away until it is all he can do to endure.

And he _can_ endure.

Soon he is snotty and wailing and kicking and flailing. Desperate for it to be over while never wanting it to end. Because Steve is giving him what he thinks he can handle, and God, he wants to make Steve proud. Wants to be worthy of the praise being doled out in measures, every 'good boy' and 'sweetheart' making it easier to let go. Let the pain wash over him. Give up and give in to the rush of giddy pleasure intermingling with his misery until he is sent to the in-between place where it hurts, sure, but he is removed from the reality of that hurt. Brain detaching from body, so that he becomes no more than an impartial observer of his own discomfort.

Only then, when Bucky slumps, does Steve slow. The blistering storm becoming a summer shower, then a patter, then nothing at all. Ceasefire as Steve rubs his warm hand over Bucky's battered behind, squeezing and kneading all the sorest spots. Bucky hisses. Groans. Pushes back into the touch and manages a "pluhhh…" which might mean please, though it's hard to say.

“Pluhhh-what, Buck?”

“S’good.”

“Yeah?” Steve laughs, running his finger over one particularly tender spot. “You’re gonna have bruises for days.”

Lighting up from the inside, Bucky grins and lifts his head. “C’n I see?”

“Sure. Think you can stand up?”

“Yuh-huh.” His confidence falters, however, when he tries, only to discover that his knees have likened themselves to a banana and split. Steve’s right there, though, bolstering him to his feet as he finds his balance.

“There you go, you got it, pal. How you doing?”

“S’good,” he reiterates, the words more a slur than a slurry this time around.

Another low chuckle, and then Steve’s leading him to the padded table. Bucky takes it upon himself to sit, only to be met with instant regret, jumping to his feet with a low, “fuuuuuck.”

“Yeah, maybe don’t do that, genius,” Steve teases, rapping him on the side of the head with one knuckle. “Lie back, put your knees up. Distribute the pressure to your feet and your shoulders.”

Bucky does as he’s told, and while it still hurts, it’s not unbearable. “Okay, yeah.”

“Better?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know we still gotta get through that correction of yours, right?”

Right. Because the paddling had been the warm-up, and shit if that doesn't send a shiver shooting straight down his spine. "Yeah."

“And it’s gonna be tough, but you’re brave, aren’t you?”

Sure, yes, totally brave. Anything that keeps Steve smiling like that, he thinks he can handle. Molten lava, an Iron Maiden, bamboo shoots under the fingernails. Whatever. It’s all good.

“You alright for me to leave you alone for a second?” Steve asks, which is nice. Nice to be checked in on, Bucky decides, as he nods and waves him off.

It is, he’s surprised to discover seconds later, a little lonely, even if Steve’s only across the room getting his bag. And also, huh, that’s interesting: Bucky’s shivering. Was he doing that before? Hard to say. The room isn’t cold, so it must be…what’s the word? Physiological? Maybe. Not a doctor. Doesn’t care.

“Hey,” Steve says, returning with a hand mirror like the one Becca had in her locker during high school.

Synapses incapable of firing, Bucky blinks at the mirror and furrows his brow. “Whazzat?”

“A mirror.”

“Yeah…” He smiles. Licks his lips. “Why’zzat?”

“I thought you wanted to see my handiwork, smartass.”

“Ohhhhhh.”

If Bucky had a sense of shame left, he might have been embarrassed about what came next. Namely, Steve making him put a hand behind each knee to lift his legs, exposing himself like he’s in the world’s most unfortunate gynecological exam. Steve’s favorite sort of position—vulnerable, vaguely humiliating, and meant to be deliberately difficult to endure. Except Bucky no longer gives a shit about what’s difficult to endure. Not when he’s so invested in discovering how much he can handle.

Angling the mirror, Steve uses his free hand to lift Bucky’s head with surprising tenderness, holding him so he’s not straining his neck. “Can you see?”

“Nnn—” He sighs. “Bad angle.”

Steve shifts the mirror, and then, well, there it fucking is. The cherry-red color of his skin isn't a maraschino—no fancy cocktail cherries in Steve's dungeon, oh no. The shade of his ass is closer to one of those cherries that's so red it's nearly purple. Two blooms, identical in shape and size, color each cheek, with lesser welts marking him all the way down to the tops of his thighs. "Oh, wow…" he manages, eyes wide.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

"I…yeah," he agrees because it is. Sort of. Mostly when he tries to see it through Steve's eyes.

They take their time, admiring the view until Bucky's arms begin to shake, and he lets out a sigh. Steve picks up on the tension, releasing his hold and tapping Bucky's knees in turn, allowing him to resume his former position. Then, Steve goes back to his bag, and while Bucky can't see what he's doing, he finds he doesn't really care. Whatever it is, Steve knows what’s next. So he closes his eyes, focusing on the steady thrum of pain in his lower half, body pulsing in time with his heart.

A few seconds later, Steve takes hold of his left arm. Bucky doesn’t resist. Doesn’t even open his eyes as said arm is drawn above his head, cuffed, and locked to the table restraint. The other side follows, and honestly? He’s grateful for the bondage. For the intimacy of Steve remembering that he has trouble not moving sometimes, so he’s compensating. Taking care of it without Bucky having to ask.

Because Steve takes care of him. Steve knows him. Steve…

Steve’s hand is on his cock.

Reverie broken, Bucky's eyes fly open, and he sucks in a sharp breath, looking down to find Steve, shit-eating grin on his face as he rubs a lube-slick palm against Bucky's semi-hard prick.

“Oh, hi,” he says cheerfully. “Good break?”

“Wh-uuuuuuh?” Bucky garbles, because if this is his correction, he’s confused by the methodology.

"Need to get you hard," comes the amiable reply. "Because—oh, there you go. That feels good, huh?" (The 'that' in question being Steve rubbing his thumb across Bucky's oh-so-sensitive head, deliberately and intimately as he continues talking.) "Looking at the app, best I can figure, you started at about a forty-sixty split—forty percent of the time you were good, sixty percent bad. But!" Punctuating the exclamation, he brings his other hand up to cradle Bucky's balls, rolling them between his fingers like he's a…well. Person who's good at handling balls. Whatever. Bucky's brain is too fuzzy for apt comparisons.

“The good news,” Steve continues, blithely, “is that over the course of the time you were using the app, you went up to a sixty-five, thirty-five split, with the sixty-five percent being when you were _good_. So you’ve improved by…hmm…”

He trails off, and Bucky grows concerned that he’s going to be expected to do basic math while getting a reasonably intense handjob. "Huh?"

“Just thinking. Let’s see…forty to sixty-five—” Steve frowns, tightening his grip. “Forty-one.” A pump of his fist. “Forty-two.” Another. “Forty-three.” Another, and another, one pump for every digit. Ceaseless, pleasant torture, Bucky’s hips leaving the table with each jerk, sweat on his brow and no, he’s not _close_ or anything, but he's very, very hard and Steve's just fucking…excellent at edging. At least, he's pretty sure this is edging.

“Aaaand sixty- _five_ ,” Steve finishes, pulling his hand away, leaving Bucky’s dick bobbing against empty air. “Twenty-five percent improvement in less than two weeks. That’s _really_ impressive, Bucky. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you,” he croaks, licking dry lips as his hips lift once more in Steve’s direction, dick a divining rod of desperation, aching for any amount of friction.

“However,” Steve says, a regretful note creeping in. “That _does_ leave us with the remaining thirty-five percent of the time that you're _not_ good. And look, Bucky, I'm a reasonable guy—I'm not expecting a hundred percent here—but you gotta know that sixty-five’s a D at best. Maybe a D-minus. I don't know, I'm not as smart as you."

Bucky knows. He _knows_ a D's not good enough. Never was, growing up. Shit, worst grade he ever got was a C on a test in his seventh-grade life science class, but he never wanted to repeat the experience. Not with his mother's tut-tutting about it for days, and his father's resigned sighs.

“Like I said, I don’t expect perfection, but I think—and I’m pretty sure I’m right on this—that you were an A student, yeah?”

“Top ten—” He swallows. “Percent of my class.”

“Yeeeeah,” Steve says, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth like this is the toughest conversation he’s ever had. “And that’s the thing: an A student would be hitting ninety percent. You get me?”

A nod.

“So while I really am proud of you for that twenty-five percent improvement—and I think I showed that, didn’t I?” He gestures to Bucky’s un-wilting erection as proof, and it’s all Bucky can do to make a little noise of assent. “But sixty-five to ninety is a pretty wide gap. I mean, that’s _another_ twenty-five, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes fixed on Steve’s slick fist. Is he sorry? He thinks he’s sorry. Having good posture doesn’t actually mean shit to him, but the disappointment in Steve’s voice is enough to kill a guy where he stands. Historically, he’s never done well with being a disappointment—his parents, his teachers, his boss. He’s always been the good guy. The best boy. The one who doesn’t make trouble; doesn’t act up. Never late. Never disagreeable. Always sharp, cheerful, and utterly biddable.

“I know you’re sorry,” Steve agrees. “And that’s why we gotta take care of this correction, right?”

“…right.”

“Plus, I’m a man of my word. I think I promised you something the last time you were here, didn’t I?”

Bucky stares stupidly at Steve for a second before the magic word springs to mind. “Oh! Clothespins!”

“There you are, genius. I prepped a couple different versions, but based on your percentages, I think I’m gonna lay down some rope with clothespins attached so it creates…ah, I’m bad at describing it, but it’s like a clothesline. Only you’re the clothes.”

Shocking precisely no-one, Bucky has seen that before in one of his deep dives into fetish porn. It always looks…uncomfortable, to say the least. “Ah.”

“It’s called a zipper,” Steve supplies. “Hurts like hell—I’ve had it done on me once or twice, just to see what it feels like. And, you know, I guess it’s probably a lot like being skinned alive. I can’t imagine flaying feels much worse, anyway.”

There is no way that’s true. Bucky knows it instinctively—knows that Steve is goading him and teasing him and trying to scare him to make this worse. And, okay, it’s sort of working, because that delicious hit of fear-joy races across his senses, sending him back to his very happy place. “That’s…okay,” he agrees. “Yeah. Good.”

“Such a little pain junkie. We’re gonna start with a trial run—and these _aren’t_ part of the correction. It’ll just be more fun for me if you know exactly how bad it’s gonna get. Oh, and one more thing…”

Bucky hates to ask, but he raises a brow all the same.

“I’m gonna pull the line when you come. So, you know, your orgasm’s gonna suck.”

Bucky groans. “I guess I deserve it?” he offers, because also: this is fun. The anticipation and the nerves and the oh-so-slight bit of fear in the pit of his stomach.

"Oh, you do. Don't worry about that," Steve says, crouching down and rummaging in the bag to produce…exactly what he'd described. A piece of slim nylon rope with five clothespins hanging from it. Under other circumstances, Bucky might have been curious about the construction. The methodology. The other permutations of this scenario that Steve had evidently dreamed up but isn’t going to use. Currently, however, all he can focus on is where Steve is headed with the rope.

Bucky’s bound left arm, as it turns out. The soft underside of his tricep exposed to torture, vulnerable as Steve pinches a bit of skin and clips the first clothespin in place.

The bite is instantly painful, a bright sting that makes him hiss with discomfort. It's relentless, too, unlike a slap or a spank that fades. Certainly, it _dulls_ after that initial spark, but it never really ceases, wound throbbing its protest as Steve clips the other four pins into place.

“How’s that feel?” he asks, as though he genuinely cares.

“I mean. They hurt?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, taking hold of the end of the rope. “And that’s just on your _arm_ , pal. Imagine where _else_ I could put them.”

"No, thanks."

“Don’t get cute,” he laughs, giving the nearest clothespin a flick to remind Bucky that oh, yeah, this could be worse.

“Sorry,” he grunts, toes digging in and finding purchase against the slick vinyl padding of the table.

“No, it’s funny. Sort of. Anyway, I’m gonna count to ten, then I’m gonna pull the zip. And I really want you to remember—no matter how much pain you feel right now—that it’s gonna be a fuckload worse the next time. When there are more of them. And they’ve been on longer. And they’re not on your arm. And I’m ruining your orgasm.”

“ _Sadist_.”

“Yup,” Steve nods, then starts to count.

Bucky braces himself, but there’s no proper preparation for the line of fire that shoots up his arm when Steve reaches ten. He yanks the rope up and off with a quick snap of his wrist, clothespins pulling and popping away from sensitive skin with extreme prejudice.

“Ohhhhh- _hhhhhhhh_!” He howls, one foot lifting to kick a fruitless can-can as he writhes from side to side, catching at least a couple sore spots on his ass in the process. Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ he will never slump again in his life.

"Don't you think it hurts more coming off than going on?" Steve asks conversationally, as though Bucky isn't actively losing his shit. "It's because the clothespin like…cuts off the blood flow, and then when it comes off, the blood rushes back."

"Fascinating," he grits, checking in with himself, senses parsing the difference between genuine discomfort and residual shock.

Steve smirks. Bends down. Licks a wet stripe up the abused flesh of Bucky’s arm before stepping back. “As for the rest of them—safety first, of course. If I did twenty-five on one zipper, I’d run the risk of doing actual damage to you. So we’re gonna break them up…spread them out. Two sets of ten. One on each side of your chest.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “What about the other five?”

“Oh.” Steve smiles. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Such nonchalance. What an asshole. Bucky can't help grinning. "Uh. Awesome?"

"You say that like you don't trust me," Steve teases, feigning offense as he goes back to his bag, dragging out two ropes of ten clothespins each, which he drapes over Bucky's rapidly rising-and-falling belly. He takes a second before he gets to work, though, a small smile playing across his face as he observes Bucky like he's an animal in a zoo. Or a prime cut of meat and Steve's the butcher. Hard to say. 

It comes as no surprise to Bucky when the first clothespin on the first chain goes on his left nipple. Or, like, right below it. Whatever. It hurts, that's all that matters, the sharp bite of rigid wood against that oh-so-sensitive area making him arch his back, wrists tugging fruitlessly against their bonds. Smiling, Steve flicks the pin, drawing a fresh set of tears to Bucky’s eyes. 

“Jesus,” he manages around a gasp.

“Nah. Just me. That looks good on you, though. Bet you’re gonna sit up straight from now on, huh?”

It’s not funny. He laughs anyway. “I’ll buy a fuckin’ corset,” he mumbles.

“Wouldn’t mind seeing that,” Steve says before continuing, laddering the clothespins into place, ending just below Bucky’s navel, where he pulls the skin taut and clips the last clip of the first string into place. The nine that aren’t on his nipple aren’t _so_ bad, though he imagines that'll change when they come off. And, Christ, there's ten more to go. Plus, the mystery five. An effective correction if there ever were one.

Steve crosses to his other side, but before starting on the second zipper, he leans down to press a remarkably sweet kiss to Bucky’s damp forehead. “You’re so brave, by the way. Taking so much for me.”

Welp, there’s that fucking ooey-gooey caramel again, a new grin affixing itself to Bucky’s ridiculous, non-poker mug. “Thanks.”

Steve nods, then reaches down to give his wilting cock two quick tugs. “Attaboy,” he murmurs, releasing his hold so that those same nimble fingers can begin torturing the other side of Bucky’s torso. Mere minutes later, he is adorned with twin trails of quivering clothespins, the long lead lines of both draped between his slightly-spread thighs.

Satisfied, Steve picks up that first five-clip rope, splaying it between his fingers and studying it. “I could…” he starts, then shakes his head.

“What?”

“Well. If I didn’t need you to get off, I’d put ‘em on your balls. But I do need you to get off. So…” Shaking his head, he bends down, returning a few seconds later with five individual clothespins rather than the rope. “Brought these just in case of an odd number. Stick out your tongue.”

Bucky’s better angels kick in before his brain has time to question the command, only to be rewarded with a clothespin on his tongue that hurts nearly as badly as the ones on his nipples, making him whine.

“How’s that feel?” Steve queries.

“Wee-yud,” he replies, the wood hitting his lips.

“Thought so. Now, as for these last four…” He shrugs. “They hurt on your tricep, right?”

Sealing his own fate, Bucky nods, ending up with two clothespins on each tricep for his trouble.

“Such a sweetheart,” Steve sing-songs once he’s through, rolling a hand down Bucky’s chest, between the parallel paths of pain that stretch from his nipples to his navel. Once or twice, he allows an errant finger to catch a clothespin, making it burn all that much more. It is, therefore, a blessed relief when there are no more touchpoints; when Steve’s fingers find his cock instead, warmth wrapping around straining flesh. His other hand, meanwhile, slips further south to take hold of the rope ends, twisting them around his palm the way one might tighten up on the leash of a recalcitrant puppy.

“I’m gonna jerk you off,” Steve explains pleasantly. “And when you’re about to come, you’d better be sure to tell me. Because if you _don’t_ —” Giving the ropes a gentle tug, he leans down close, breath whispering across Bucky’s skin. “I’m gonna pull the line anyway, then reattach all twenty-five to those bruises on your ass and smack them off you, one by one.”

It's probably an idle threat. If Bucky were a betting man, he'd say it definitely was. But the very idea of it makes him a little queasy, so he nods his agreement.

“So what’re you gonna say?” Steve prompts.

Swallowing around the saliva pooling beneath his tongue, he struggles to spit out, “I’b goh cub.”

“Close enough.” Steve shrugs, reaching down to pump another squirt of lube into his palm before beginning to jerk Bucky off with a laser focus.

And it's good—of course, it's good. Even if he's not as close as he was before. Even if it's harder to focus on the pleasure through the pain. Even if he feels that familiar, creeping cloud of failure settling upon him. For not being able to slip back into that distant headspace with ease. For making things awkward when they should be easy. But staking a claim in climax is made that much harder when every twitch and shiver of his trembling form sends fresh waves of pain coursing through him. Reminding him that getting to the endpoint is not the be-all, end-all, but perhaps, instead, the end of being.

Or maybe it won't be. Maybe he'll never get there, and Steve will keep him like this. Tied to this table. Correcting— _punishing_ —him forever and for always because he’s not good enough. Not smart enough. Not trying hard enough. Not _useful,_ not _helpful,_ not the best that he can be. Worthless with his shitty posture and his workaholic-ness and the fact that he was late, late, late…

Except he’s not in trouble for being late. He’s in _trouble_ for—

Steve switches tactics. Moves his hand to Bucky’s balls again. Slips his middle finger lower, circling his rim and _God_ , that should be good. That should be better than good, it should be transcendent. Which it is, in his hindbrain. Some primitive, animal instincts that send his hips juddering toward the ceiling, heart thumping against his ribcage. He wants to cry out but he can't find his voice. So he pulls his tongue between his teeth only to discover that it’s impossible because that traitorous tongue has tripled in size. Grown unwieldy. Can’t do right by him. Can't form words. Can't swallow. Can't speak. Can’t be anything but pointless and feeble. Unable to give Steve what should be so simple: that basic biological function.

Steve knows what he wants, though. Knows how to get it. How to push past Bucky's defenses and take it. He moves his hand back to Bucky’s neglected cock and tightens his hold. Jerks faster and faster, better and better until it's inevitable. Only then does Bucky feel the tightening low in his body. The tipping point, rushing forward to meet him except it's not _right_. Not good. He’s prickly and sweaty. Pinpricks poking holes in every inch of him. Hot and angry and anxious at himself. Because he is _ruining_ this the way he ruins everything. Overthinking. Needing too much and wanting too much and Christ, he can’t breathe.

His throat is closing. Nothing can get through. The clothespins are burrowing beneath his skin, and he is wrung out and strung up, and Steve must be so _disappointed_ in him, except maybe Steve can’t be disappointed because Steve doesn’t care. Someone who cared would have texted more. Someone who cared would have offered to see him next week or in three weeks instead of making him wait a month. Someone who cared would have been angry that he was late…

“…good boy,” Steve murmurs, eyes fixed on Bucky’s cock. Attention focused elsewhere, as it should be, but God, he’s lonely, up here by himself. Stuck in his head. “You’re so close, Bucky, I know you are. Come on, come for me.”

Everything has gone wrong. He wants to roll off the table. Wants to scream and kick and cry. Wants to give voice to the sticky places within him that are wrong. Hurt. Regretful. More than that, though? He wants to come. _Needs_ to come. Instinct and desire warring with the reality that no, he is _not_ okay. Even as he blurts out a desperate, “goh cub!” around his clothespinned tongue. And then: he does. The brief spurt of ecstasy overtaken by agony as Steve swiftly rips both zippers clean off his skin.

He screams, and that’s when it happens. No moaning cry of completion to greet them, but instead a shouted and bitten off yelp of “red!” tumbling from his swollen tongue.

Everything hangs still for an instant. An immediate cessation of abuse. Steve’s hand leaves his cock, and he breathes out a soft, “oh, Bucky” before his touch returns. Palm performing soothing ministrations against the rapidly reddening skin of Bucky’s chest. Then coming to rest against his heart. “It’s alright. You’re okay. Take a deep breath for me.”

Bucky shakes his head because he doesn’t know that he can. It’s only then that he realizes he’s crying. Great, hiccuping sobs that roll through him like thunder, clogging his throat further. Making it hard to focus and fuck, he wants the clothespin _off_ his tongue. Wants everything to stop but it can’t stop because he’s still there and this is still happening and there’s no magic wand that he can wave that will wrap him in a blanket and tell him it’s going to be alright.

There is Steve, though. Steve reaching out with tender fingers, voice a centering comfort as he hovers them near Bucky’s mouth. “I’m so sorry, pal, but I need to take this off so you can catch your breath, okay? It’s going to hurt a little, but then it’s over. On three. One. Two. Three.” And then the clothespin is gone, and Bucky finds he can breathe a little easier, sucking his tongue back into his mouth.

“Such a good boy,” Steve says, brushing his hair back from his forehead, other hand rubbing slow, careful circles on his chest. “Let’s try this again. I want you to breathe with me. In…one, two, three. Out…one, two, three. There you go, just like that.”

Bucky shudders his way through three, four, five, six, seven deep breaths before he finds his focus. Fights his way past the sobs and the panic to see Steve, keeping close, the expression on his face not _worried_ , but concerned. Not frantic, but cautious. A furrowed brow and considered kindness in his eyes.

“That’s really good, Bucky,” he says when their eyes lock. “You’re doing so well. I’m going to untie you now, alright? I can take the clothespins off your arms before I do, or I can let you go and then you can do it. Whatever you want.”

“You,” he croaks, because whatever just happened to him—and whatever it was had been _really_ fucking scary—hadn’t been Steve’s fault. Or at least, Steve hadn’t done anything that Bucky hadn’t given him permission to do. And Steve’s not a crazy-fucking-mind-reader.

“Of course,” he replies. “I’m going to make it as quick as I can. It’ll hurt, but I’ll rub the spot right after to try and mitigate that. You understand?”

The very idea of Steve trying to _mitigate_ pain is enough to break through the clouds in Bucky’s head and get a half-smile out of him. “Yeah.”

Steve unclips each clothespin in turn, rubbing his rough palms over the marks left behind until they’re no longer stinging. After that, he sets to work unbuckling the cuffs, releasing Bucky’s slightly-reddened wrists, then helping him roll onto his side.

“How about we just head to the back room? Get a blanket, some water, hang out for a while?” he asks, crouching down to face Bucky head-on. 

That…sounds amazing. A blanket would be heaven, and now that he's capable of assessing his needs, he thinks he could drink an entire gallon of water and still want more. So he nods. Allows Steve to maneuver him off the table and onto shaking legs. Holds on tight as he's escorted across the room, wishing all the while that he was smaller. Tiny enough to be carried. Held close and cuddled, and yeah, okay, it's a weird want, but it's been a weird day.

Once they’re in the back room, Steve grabs a couple of blankets, a bottle of water, and a bougie organic candy bar. Once provisioned, he helps Bucky stretch out on the couch. Turned on his side, for obvious reasons, head on Steve’s lap, face towards Steve’s stomach, with both blankets draped over his still-shaking form.

For a while, there's nothing but silence. Steve's fingers in his hair, combing through sweaty strands. Not so different from the other times they've been in this room, except for the part where it's completely different. Because this time, Bucky's not in that floaty-good place. Doesn't have that warm, fuzzy feeling. This time, he feels like he's been knocked out in a prizefight with a guy two weight classes above his own.

"Lift your head," Steve instructs eventually, though it's hard to say whether five minutes or five hours have passed. Bucky does, and he's grateful for the water he receives, even if some spills down his chin. The room-temperature liquid soothes his still-throbbing tongue, and he's thankful both for that and for the bite-size piece of candy Steve offers. He chews. Swallows. Finds a second bite waiting. Then a third. On and on, until the whole snack is gone and he returns that much more to himself. Only then does he drop his head back down, twisting his torso so he's half on his back, legs still turned out, ass touching nothing but the blanket.

Steve’s waiting, that same concerned, quizzical expression on his face as he meets Bucky’s eyes. “Hi, pal,” he offers.

“Hi.” He clears his throat. “I uh. I’m really sorry…” Because he feels like he should be.

“Nope,” Steve cuts him off before he can follow that train of thought into the tunnel. “You’re never allowed to be sorry for using a safe word.”

“Oh.”

“I’m the one who needs to be sorry, honestly,” he continues, choosing his words carefully. “Whatever was going on in there, I didn’t pick up on what you were putting down. And that’s pretty much my only job, so—”

“No, that’s not—” Bucky says over him, just as Steve finishes with, “—if you’re mad, I get…”

They both trail off, and Bucky can’t help smiling. “You go,” he offers.

"Ah." Steve shrugs. "Just, you know. You seemed like you were into it, but apparently I wasn't reading something right. So we can talk about it, or if you don't want to talk, we can just put clothespins on the hard limit list and move on. If…well. If you want there to be a next time."

“Wait.” Bucky’s quick with a protest, words spilling from his lips before he has time to consider them. More likely to be the truth that way. “That’s…okay, number one, I _do_ want there to be a next time. And number two…I actually really liked the clothespins?”

Steve’s left eyebrow arches so high Bucky worries it might hit the ceiling. “Uh. Kinda seems like you didn’t?”

Sighing, he worries his bottom lip between his teeth, turning his face against the fabric of Steve's t-shirt to buy himself a second. "It's hard to say," he settles on, which isn't much of an explanation, but the issue is one that he doesn't have words for just yet. The thing where there's this imaginary hole, just above his heart, that holds all his problems. It's impossible to explain why there was nothing wrong with the clothespins. Or the handjob. Or anything Steve had been doing. It's only that everything in Bucky's brain had gone a little bit off-kilter. The axis of normalcy tilting just so, sending the pleasant orbit in which he usually found himself during their time together onto a collision course with an asteroid.

Which isn’t something he’s able to articulate. So he shrugs, picking at a fuzzy piece of blanket felt. “I just got scared, I guess.”

Steve "hmms," then brushes his hand through Bucky's hair again. When no further response is forthcoming, Bucky attempts to warble through more of his brain-stew. "I got this dumb idea in my head that I wouldn't be able to come. And that you'd keep me there forever. Which, I realize that's not actually a thing that would happen, but there was this little voice that kept telling me you were disappointed in me, because of how shitty I've been today. And then I couldn't breathe, and that made me freak out, but also not having enough air felt kind of…good? But like, too much good? So when I came, it was so overwhelming that I…yeah. Used the safe word."

Steve stays silent, the hand that had been on Bucky’s chest moving to cover where his own is resting against his belly, the blanket a thin barrier between them. “From where I was sitting, it looked like a panic attack. The aftermath, anyway,” he offers eventually, voice quiet.

"I…" Bucky blinks, the idea catching him off-guard. "I don't know that I've ever had a panic attack before. I mean, I had these weird anxiety issues as a kid, and I used to like…yeah. I couldn't catch my breath."

“Oh?”

“Yup. I’d get so worried about doing everything perfectly that I’d work myself into these fits. Freaked the fuck out of my mom. But I haven’t done that in years. Not since I was…I dunno, fourteen?” _Seventeen_ , his mind supplies. The night before taking the SAT for the first time, hyperventilating in the shower, then sitting on the cold, wet tile of the bathroom floor, sobbing silently for thirty minutes.

Looking up, Bucky tries to gauge Steve’s response, only to find an unreadable expression on his face. For a second, it looks like he's pissed, but then he opens his mouth and just sounds sad. "Bucky…" he takes a deep breath."First of all, shit like that is…let's call it a pre-existing condition. I need to know about any health issues, mental or otherwise. Otherwise, I can't do this safely—it's like if you had asthma or something. I gotta know that so I can accommodate it. Watch for it."

“Oh,” he frowns.

“But you said you haven’t had an episode like that since you were a kid, so I’ll take your word for it and file it away for next time. Secondly, though,” he frowns, thumb tracing along Bucky’s cheekbone. “This…what we do here? It’s not supposed to be stressful or upsetting. If I made you feel that way, then I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t!”

“But I did,” he continues. “Because I’m the one setting the scene. I’m the one watching out for you. So if I’m not seeing that you’re having trouble, then I’m…” Blowing out a breath, he looks to the ceiling, then back down. “We don’t know each other all that well yet. I’m still figuring you out. And tonight, I fucked up.”

“That’s…” Bucky frowns. “It wasn’t you. I was just overthinking. Wanting to do it right.”

A small smile crosses Steve’s face, and he shakes his head. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Um…sure.”

Leaning over, he presses a light kiss to Bucky’s brow. “There’s no such thing as doing this right. There’s no such thing as perfect. I love watching you push yourself for me, but if you can’t do something, or you don’t feel right, or you start having weird thoughts that make it so you can’t breathe…shit, Bucky, that’s why you’ve got ‘yellow’ in your repertoire.”

Well, fuck. “…oh.”

"So, okay. New rules. I'm gonna check in with you more often, first of all," he says, sounding it out as he goes, a tactician through and through. "If you start getting those thoughts like I'm _really_ disappointed in you instead of pretending to be disappointed? You _have_ to call yellow. Or, vice versa—I might do it to you if I can't get a read on you. But please believe me when I say that I will _never_ be mad at you if you do that. You understand?”

The hole above Bucky’s heart shrinks just a bit, and he nods. “Got it.”

Steve smiles, silence descending for a moment before he asks his next question. “What did you mean when you said you’d been shitty today?”

"Oh. Uh." Sighing, he shifts his hand slightly, turning it up, so he's palm to palm with Steve through the blanket. "Because I was late? I figured you'd be pissed, and maybe I'd be in trouble. But then…you weren't, and I wasn't."

"Ah." Steve nods slowly. "So you were feeling guilty, and I didn't help you kill the guilt."

“I mean, you kind of did? You said it was okay.”

“But it wasn’t really. Not for you. So the worry stuck around, huh?”

“I guess.” Squirming in his blanket cocoon, he sighs. “Why weren’t you? Pissed, I mean.”

“I wasn’t thrilled,” he says with a shrug. “But you haven’t been late before, and being on time isn’t a rule we’ve discussed. Besides, I’m not gonna hold you accountable for the MTA being a piece of shit.”

“Ah.” Biting his lip, Bucky focuses his attention on Steve’s forearm, because it’s easier than looking at his face. “That’s…the MTA excuse isn’t _strictly_ true. I did miss a train, but that’s…I would have been late anyway, probably. Because I stayed behind at work when I didn’t exactly need to.”

“Mmm. Do you stay late a lot?”

“Not all the time. But we were on a deadline…”

“Ah.”

"Which, except, I procrastinate. So the deadline was sort of my fault." His tendency toward putting things off is a whole other side of his perfectionism that he isn't prepared to dive into right then and there. Luckily, Steve doesn't press that particular button.

"You said you didn't exactly need to stay, though," he says, pressing on the other one, instead.

"That's…yeah. I made the deadline. But other stuff piled up while I was working on it…"

“Could that stuff have waited until Monday?”

“…probably.”

"Gotcha." Another pause and Steve gives his hand a squeeze. "If you want to add punctuality to your rules, pal, we can do that. And if you want me to add a correction for being late to whatever we do next time, I can do that, too."

Bucky smiles, some of the weight lifting off his still-constricted chest. “Really?”

“Of course. This is about you, you know that.”

Something about the phrasing doesn't sit quite right, so Bucky files it away, worrying it over in the back of his head as he responds. "Then I want that rule. Unless it's an actual emergency situation, and I let you know in advance. I need to be like…done with work when I'm supposed to be done. And also…" Because hey, in for a penny, in for a pound. "I want rules for the…I mean, if I'm not gonna see you for a while…I'd like…that is…if we're texting. If…" Christ, now he's blushing. How is it possible that he can _still_ be a stammering mess around Steve, after everything they’ve done together?

“You wanna try that again, there, Buck?” Steve asks, mouth twisting into a half-smile.

"Sorry. Just. Okay. I felt like, after last time, you were kind of being…a little distant," he says, anxieties coalescing into something substantial. Albeit something that has him sounding like a sixteen-year-old with a crush, but hey, beggars and choosers and all that jazz.

“Oh.” Steve’s face falls, a flash of something akin to embarrassment in his eyes. “That’s…I didn’t mean to be, if you thought. I…well, look. You’re pretty well-versed in what we do here, right? You do all the reading, watch all the porn, because you’re a genius?”

Taking the ribbing in stride, Bucky shrugs. “Sure.”

“So you know about top drop.”

Well, now. That’s a surprise. Sure, Bucky knows top drop as a concept, but it doesn’t seem like something that would affect _Steve._ He’s a professional. “Um. Yes.”

"If we're being _honest_ , and I think we are,” he continues. “After my total failure at getting you off last time, I felt shitty. And I also started to wonder if I was monopolizing your time, but you were too polite to tell me to stop.”

“You’re not,” he says, and yeah, he’s interrupting, but he’s off the clock.

“Sure about that?”

Shaking his head, Bucky sits up as much as his ass will allow. “I _like_ that stuff. The extracurricular stuff. And I had fun last time! I told you!”

“But you didn’t—”

“Jesus, is this about your thing? How you only get off on giving other people what gets _them_ off?”

Steve looks away, like he hates the fact that Bucky has that little bit of ammunition. “Dunno,” he mutters.

Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes, even if he thinks he’d be entirely justified. “Did I, or did I not, just use my safe word?”

Confused, Steve turns back. “…yes?”

"So, like, ipso facto, I'm not a lawyer, but now you know that I'm capable of using it if I'm not having a good time, or if I don't like something, or…whatever."

“Right but—”

“And _furthermore_ ,” he continues, because if he’s going to interrupt once, he might as well keep going. “This whole thing we’ve got going on is _not_ a business arrangement. Or, if it is, it's about as much of one as feeding a cat—it's symbiotic, or whatever. Cat gets food, the human gets snuggles. So, you and me? Yeah, we're on equal footing as far as enjoying this goes. I'm not paying you, and I'm pretty sure you're getting _something_ out of this if you’re doing it for free. But it isn’t some bullshit about my reviews on the quality of your paddles.”

Steve’s mouth twitches, and he shrugs. “So what?”

"So, like, can we just call a spade a spade?"

A look of mild panic crosses Steve’s face. “Which is…?”

"We're scening," he supplies. That's the only word he has for it, because they're not dating, they're not fucking, and they're certainly not boyfriends or partners. But they play together, they enjoy one another, and in retrospect, it's increasingly apparent that Steve only came up with the bullshit idea of a business arrangement as an excuse to see him again. Which, that’s fine, he's happy it happened, however it happened. Maybe they're not some great romance for the ages, but the arrangement at least deserves the respect of an honest label.

“Oh,” Steve says, broad shoulders losing some of their tension, like maybe Bucky’d been about to ask him on a date. Which: no. even Bucky isn’t _that_ much of a glutton for punishment. “Yeah. Right. We are.”

“Which means you don’t have to worry about bugging me in the off hours.”

“Right.”

"And I can bug you without worrying about if I'm being annoying."

“You don’t annoy me…”

“And— _and_ —even if I’m not seeing you for a while, like because of my sister, you are more than welcome to make sure I don’t forget to behave myself.”

The hint of a smile on Steve’s face widens, and he shakes his head. “Fucking genius.”

“I’m aware.”

“You doing okay, by the way?” he asks, shifting gears in that semi-socially awkward way of his—like maybe he lived in a bubble through his developmental years. The world’s cutest indoor kid.

“You mean like…mentally, after my complete meltdown?”

“Yeah, that.”

“I’m, you know. Okay. Better.”

“You want me to put something on those bruises?”

He certainly does, so he acquiesces to the comfortable normalcy (normalcy!) of turning over on Steve’s lap. Pillowing his left cheek on folded arms while Steve rubs the cooling salve into his skin. Hurts, yes, on his most tender places, but it’s a good kind of hurt. A healing hurt, and boy if that isn’t just as saccharine as it gets.

"So," Steve says after a while, voice slipping back to natural authority. "We're keeping clothespins on the list?"

“We are,” Bucky notes. “Next time without the panic.”

"Alright," he agrees, fingers trailing down Bucky's crack in a way that's reminiscent of how very close he had come to maybe, possibly, fingering him earlier. The very idea sets Bucky squirming, and oh, Jesus, please let him be allowed to jerk off during their four weeks apart. "So, for next time…how late would you say you were today?"

Ah, yes, there are the happy fluttering moths of joyful anticipation. Grinning, he shrugs. “Uh. Like, at least ten minutes?”

“Huh. Interesting, interesting. And you’ll be continuing to aim for ninety percent on posture?”

“Yup.”

"Plus, building up your plank. And going to yoga, and…you're still running?"

“Not _every_ day, but maybe three times a week?”

“Three times a week is fine. And hmm, let me think…” He trails off, leaving Bucky to contemplate how much he loves the notion of Steve thinking up ways to torture him from a distance, only to be surprised with, “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

Caught off-guard, Bucky lifts his head. “I don’t.”

“But you said all that stuff about feeding the cat…”

"Oh, no. I was just using that as an example. I mean, I've _thought_ about getting a cat. It was more like. About my theoretical cat. And our symbiotic relationship."

“That’s probably your subconscious telling you something.” Patting his ass, Steve nudges him up. “You can go get dressed.”

Abrupt as ever. Bucky smiles, levering himself to his feet before going to put on his street clothes. He’s stuck in his stupid casual Friday jeans instead of his usual soft sweats, being as he hadn’t gone home after work, which is a non-Steve reminder to maybe not be such a fucking workaholic next time.

It’s only when he’s decent that Steve—who’s been putting away his toys—speaks. “So, I figured out the rest of your homework.”

Bucky’s all ears, raising a brow. “Oh?”

“Yup. You’re going to fuck two things up on purpose.”

“Uh. What?”

“You heard me. You can pick—and they don’t have to be big. Like you could deliberately forget to bring a pen to a meeting. Spill something on yourself. I don’t care. But they have to be fuck-ups, and you have to acknowledge them in front of other people.”

Bucky can see the logic. Hates the logic. But sees the logic. It’s strange, sure, but so is Steve. “Okay. That’s…yeah.”

“One more thing about that, though. You’re _not_ allowed to feel guilty. I'm absolving you of guilt over your mistakes in advance. No shame."

“You can’t—”

"Oh, but I can. I'm the fuckin' Pope of you, pal," he teases, taking a step closer, obnoxiously pleased with himself. "You wanna do some penance, you can text me, and we'll work out a correction. But you don't get to beat yourself up anymore. That's my job."

Every internal organ Bucky possesses turns a somersault, a goofy grin spreading across his features. “Oh.”

“Because—” Steve’s nearly on top of him now. Backing him up against the wall, then placing one palm on either side of his head. “You are _such_ a good boy, Bucky. But you’re not perfect. Nobody is. So we’re going to work on getting you okay with that.”

Swallowing hard, he nods. “That…sure.”

“As for getting off—” Steve hesitates, staring into space to contemplate Bucky’s fate. “You can come four times a week, every week, except for the last one, when you can only come twice. But you have to text me every time. With evidence.”

“That’s…” he huffs out a breathy laugh. “That’s a lot of dick pics.”

“Yeah, well.” Leaning in, Steve takes Bucky’s bottom lip between his teeth and gives it a tug. “It’s a respectable-looking dick. Now, you gonna get out of here, or what?”

Bucky chances a kiss instead. Catches Steve off-guard before slipping out the door. Floats home on a strange cloud then falls into bed and sleeps for the better part of ten hours.

The buzzing of his phone rouses him the next morning. A call, judging by the insistence of the vibrations, cutting through the throbbing in his head and his dry mouth. Hungover, despite not drinking a drop, every inch of him feeling like it got hit with a Mack truck.

However, the discomfort is somewhat mitigated when he sees Steve’s name on the screen.

“Hello?” he says, pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hi, genius. Did I wake you up?”

“Kinda.”

“Sorry. Just wanted to check in—make sure you don’t feel like too much shit.”

“I mean, day-old, but not _too_ bad…”

“That’s standard after a rough night. You should treat it like a sick day—be nice to yourself. Hydrate, eat well, veg out. Watch a movie, read a book, whatever.”

Bucky smiles around the yawn that’s threatening to engulf his face. “Is that an order?”

“Of course it is. Text me a picture of your breakfast to prove it's appropriately soothing.”

“I can do that.”

"And, uh…" Steve hesitates, clearing his throat. Sitting there on the other end of the line in his blank box of an apartment. This place of his that Bucky can't quite picture. "I'm glad you're okay. And I wish it wasn't gonna be so long before I see you again."

 _It doesn’t have to be_ dances on the tip of Bucky’s tongue. What comes out instead is, “Yeah. Me, too.”

Four weeks feels like an eternity.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you're all keeping well and that this smattering of smut provided a little levity in a difficult time. Seriously, though, 2020 can suck my dick. My grandma passed, a tornado blew chunks of my house away, my parents are moving in with me because that same tornado did much worse to theirs, and oh, yeah, the global pandemic. Editing kinky fanfic is a blessed relief after all of that. 
> 
> Thanks to Kate for the beta, as always. Title taken from the songbook of the incomparable Kitty Wells.


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